


Adrift

by EmKomSkaikru



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Blackjack, Boats, F/F, F/M, Gambling, Light BDSM, Lots of Sex, Lots of drinking, Marijuana, Safewords, Swearing, cruiseship culture, general ridiculousness, some drinking and sex, travelling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-17 05:09:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8131633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmKomSkaikru/pseuds/EmKomSkaikru
Summary: Clarke Griffin’s floating through life as a cruise employee, trying to avoid the mainland for some unnamed reason, and got plenty of secrets to be vague about. But none are so interesting as Lexa Driftwood, the bold blackjack dealer, and their growing attachment as they sail across international waters.





	

**Month One**

**Day 003**

Working on a cruise ship isn't for just _anyone_.

They’ve been at sea on the U.S. Freedom for three days, but Clarke’s already feeling the strain of her new hours, which are a 7am-6pm affair every single day. So far, her fellow employees treat her like shit since she’s a newbie (and the customers aren't much better). She doesn't even know anybody except her roommate, Octavia, who is sort of loudly (drunkenly) unstable. 

Today, Clarke’s been up since 6am, primping and prepping to serve people who feel the need to both gamble _and_ drink in the early morning hours. She works at the largest casino on board (there are three) and she’s nice to these people, the guests. Well, it's actually her job to flirt like her life depends on it, because the quality of her tips sure as hell do. It's not like she loves acting so contrary to who she actually is, but 1) _money_ and 2) it's fun to be someone else. It’s also easier to be the bubbly blonde, but tiring and tedious, too. Clarke just doesn't find it a challenge, and on days like this, there isn’t even much of anything to look at. While she's lucky enough to work on first deck, all the eye can see for miles is black pulsing waves of the Atlantic Ocean as they speed to France. 

Clarke's serving a Long Island and prawns when she sees her for the first time.

An eager beaver with a toupee loses big and Clarke’s table disintegrates and then dies off completely when everyone folds. Clarke uses the opportunity to finally, casually, jump to a new spot-- better known as the table she's been side-eyeing for the past half hour. The girl that peaks her interest is the dealer at this table. With her uniform white collar and black vest, she flings out an endless game of blackjack that she controls effortlessly. Just like her outfit, everything about her is pristine. Except her hair, Clarke thinks, sneaking a quick eyeful. Her hair is a curly brown that rains down her shoulders. It looks soft, and it’s magnificently disorderly. It’s that detail that hooks Clarke first, but then she slides down next to someone’s great uncle living out his last big adventure and settles on watching. 

Clarke’s never seen this particular blackjack dealer before, but the ship is a huge entity. Even though the girl’s probably not much older than Clarke, the dealer is extremely good at what she does. She engages in a lively cohort with the drunk old men and winks conspiratorially at their equally drunk wives. This girl also whistles. Clarke thinks it sounds like a bird, but in a cute way. Sometimes it means shit, and sometimes it means I can't believe it. She appreciates the duality, the depth, of the tone. The girl’s honestly borderline rowdy, but very quietly. She attracts customers with her expressive face-- which gives Clarke the chance to stick around and schmooze with everyone-- but after an hour or two, she notices that this girl’s face is also calculated; guarded. It might be the tight confines of the cruise ship, but it feels as though it hides something as slippery as a gasoline spill. It reeks of secrets.

Clarke runs food and drinks back and forth, stays to watch gambles, either cheering or consoling the customers according to the play, and subtly watches her, observes her, without ever acknowledging this girl outright. She tries not to, anyway. Clarke catches herself staring for a second too long, caught up in observing the way the girl tilts her head when she smiles. She can feel it before it happens, but is a millisecond too late to avert her eyes and pretend it never happened. Their eyes slap together like a hand on a card, and the girl pins her with just her stare.

Skewered in a mix of adrenaline and anxiety, Clarke freezes. The girl smiles at her, inquisitive, amused, but a second later she’s laughing at something the older gentleman/probable ( _very_ handsy) sugar daddy next to Clarke says. They both look at Clarke expectantly, waiting for some kind of acknowledgment or contribution, but she clearly hasn't been paying attention to this customer or anything he may have said. Clarke sidesteps the guy, getting away, because his hand keeps drifting to her ass, but her laugh is decidedly too little, too late. 

But the blackjack dealer flashes her a grin anyway. A beat later, she even dares to throw Clarke a shameless wink. Clarke’s eyes widen, a little startled, before she excuses herself with some dirty martini glasses. The moment between them is so fleeting that she’s convinced she imagined it altogether. The next few days are mechanical and she doesn't see the girl at work again.

**Day 005**

It's 3am, and unfortunately, Clarke's not asleep but busy separating her whites and darks. It's the only actual time she can ever get a free washer/dryer aboard this cruise ship shoved full of 1,150 crew members and a single laundry room. Even though none of the crew gets an actual day off, they do get shifts off; breakfast, lunch, dinner-- usually just one, but two occasionally. It really should be illegal, but all the cruise lines institute long hours, no vacation, and low pay, so no one fights it.

Because Clarke has breakfast off tomorrow, she’s decided to wait until the early hours to launder her underwear; maybe after she can get some decent sleep without Octavia banging around blind drunk or fucking Lincoln right below her. She wouldn't even need to be doing laundry at all if it wasn't for the fact that Octavia had tripped and spilt liquor all over her suitcase, and then had the nerve to start crying as she wailed, “That was my premium tequila from Mexico!”

Clarke is thankful it didn't stain her clothes, but the thing she covets more than anything at the next port is a bedsheet. She’s going to pin it up around her bed, put headphones in, and get the best sleep ever. For now, she sadistically flings a sock into one pile, and shoves the darks into the washer below and the whites into the washer on top. Seeking to discourage interest or any talking, she stumbles sleepily with her detergent to an uninhabited conglomerate of beat up chairs. 

Clarke’s sort of numbly staring at the wall when the blackjack dealer walks across her field of vision, lugging a duffel bag of clothing to sift through. Clarke’s head swivels to follow her and after she dumps all the clothes on the counter, she witnesses her system for separating colors, which is random and chaotic. For example, the girl sorts a black sweatshirt and white top into the same pile. _Barbaric_ , Clarke thinks. 

She shakes her head at the atrocity, and briskly opens the book she brought with her. It’s Hemingway-- it's not like she's the sort of person who brags about reading Hemingway; she had saw it in a little bookstore (before she left for this insane journey) and been compelled to purchase it by the cover alone. The rolling blue waves told of an adventure, an escape, and though it wasn't what she had envisioned, it’s an interesting story, so Clarke sits down and reads it with tired eyes.

“Hemingway,” someone states.

Clarke looks up in time to see the blackjack dealer sitting down in the chair next to her. She’s in sweatpants and a t-shirt, exceedingly casual considering the given time, and looking at the book in Clarke's clutches-- presumably waiting for her to reply, but all she said was the author's name.

“Yeah,” Clarke says, squinting. 

“I like For Whom the Bell Tolls better.”

Clarke nods. She's never read that. She’s also exhausted and isn't feeling very social.

“I’m Lexa,” the girl adds.

“Hi.”

Lexa nods, but she seems less sure of herself this close. “You're the barmaid?” 

“Yup,” Clarke replies. _And you're the wild-haired blackjack dealer._

“You worked my table.”

“I did, yeah,” Clarke says-- she’s an iota bitchy about it, but this girl is just stating facts in this way that could mean anything, though they mostly sound low and accusing.

“You were staring at me,” Lexa deadpans.

Clarke shrugs. “My eyes were open and in your direction. I think it's called living.”

Lexa’s lips flare smugly. “You've been living a lot around me then.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, and slips part of the book cover into the page to keep it. “God only knows why you came up to speak to me to accuse me of _staring_ at you. Egomaniac.”

“Are you religious?” Lexa asks.

“No,” Clarke volleys back. “But you're strange.”

“Well, you probably are, too, if you're here.”

“Maybe a little,” Clarke acquiesces, narrowing her eyes sharply at how easily she had admitted to it. “But why do I have to be?”

Lexa shrugs, flicking some lint off her sweats. “Working on a ship like this usually means you're a special type of person-- or you're trying to avoid something on the mainland.”

Clarke rolls her eyes again. “Way to generalize over a thousand people.”

Lexa tilts her head with a bowed smile as if she’s decided Clarke is someone who can't accept the world for what it is. “I've been here a long time, so trust me, it's just the truth.”

“What are you trying to avoid?” Clarke retorts.

Lexa takes a moment before scrunching her mouth and answering, “I'd have to say the whole of American society.” 

Clarke nods. She can understand that. “The white picket fence fantasy not do it for you?” 

“The white picket fence fantasy is my _nightmare_ ,” Lexa admits.

“Mine too,” Clarke says. Her mind goes a million different ways, but mostly backwards. To escape that black hole, she tries to go back to reading her book, but Lexa keeps watching her and Clarke finds she can't read with eyes devouring her every movement.

Clarke sighs and shuts the book again. “Yes?”

“You never told me your name,” Lexa replies.

“Clarke.”

“Full name.”

Clarke laughs as though she's affronted. “Is this an interview? Am I under investigation?”

Lexa smiles, but is curiously silent. 

“Clarke Abigail Griffin.”

“That's a good name.”

“Thanks?” Clarke replies, mystified.

“Are you currently involved with anyone on this ship, Clarke Griffin?” Lexa asks.

Clarke raises an eyebrow. “As in… sexually?”

“I suppose that answers my question,” Lexa replies, crossing her legs.

“Does it?” Clarke counters, petulant. “I totally could be involved with someone aboard.”

“You're not. In fact, it's probably your first time away from home,” Lexa declares. 

“It isn't,” Clarke assures her.

Lexa side-eyes her. “Sure.”

“It isn't,” Clarke hisses. 

“I'm sure it isn't,” Lexa replies steadily before winking at her as quickly as she had earlier.

“God, you're a smartass,” Clarke murmurs.

“I apologize.”

“You don’t sound very sorry.”

Lexa shrugs. “Well, I'm right.”

Clarke gives her an extra harsh glower before she breaks out into a slight smile. “How long have you worked on cruise ships?”

“Mm.” Lexa squints. “Three and a half years.”

“Long time,” Clarke acknowledges. “I've been here for a little bit and never saw you.”

“It's a big place. Easy to get lost on here.” 

“You seem to know a lot about that.”

“Maybe, princess,” Lexa retorts. “But tell me about you.”

Clarke scowls. “Don't call me that.”

“Sore spot?” Lexa questions, raising an eyebrow. “What an unexpected development. I thought you might prefer the title.”

Clarke sighs. “I sort of want to punch you whenever you talk.”

“And yet, you also sort of want to kiss me.” Lexa murmurs, rolling her eyes. “I've heard it all before.”

“Are you always so fucking full of yourself?” Clarke murmurs, fidgeting with the book in her lap.

“I'm a reader of people actually,” Lexa counters, leaning closer to drawl, “I see you, Clarke Griffin. Even if it's a subconscious fantasy, you’re definitely... interested.” 

“In _what_?” Clarke counters righteously.

“In kissing me.”

Clarke, startled, jerks away from the staccato answer. _Jesus Christ, she's forward._ “Maybe to shut you up,” she snaps eventually. 

Lexa raises an eyebrow. “I might be agreeable to your technique.”

“You might be-- you should only be so _lucky_ to get me to agree to _anything_ , you pompous dolt bucket.”

Lexa whistles. “That's a new one.”

Clarke gives her a withering glare and stands. “I'm going to sit somewhere else now,” she announces. “Nobody bothers to talk to me on this boat unless they're hitting on me. It's isolating and I hate it.”

“I'm only sort of hitting on you, Clarke,” Lexa laughs. “But that's cute-- really-- and partly sad. Sit back down so I can educate an obvious newcomer about the laws of the ship. It's important knowledge.”

Clarke does sit back down for some inexplicable reason. Lexa proceeds to act like she’s an actual teacher, taking on a tone that makes feel Clarke feel she’s a challenged kindergartener during story time.

“First off, you’re gorgeous, so naturally you're going to get hit on _nonstop_ ,” Lexa enunciates. “Do you know what the male to female ratio is on this ship, Clarke?”

“No…” 

“It's 22 to 1. Everyone will give you shit, but if anyone who works here ever puts their hands on you uninvited, hit first and ask questions later,” Lexa cracks her knuckles repeatedly, and somehow, Clarke believes the threat. “They obviously need the reminder.”

“That won't be a problem. I grew up in the country, I can defend myself,” Clarke replies.

“Alright then-- if it’s a guest, tell Harper,” Lexa adds. Harper is Clarke’s boss, the barkeeper. “She’ll help you out. There’s a jail aboard if someone majorly crosses the line.”

Clarke nods. She knows that much. But Harper probably wouldn’t be needed; she could stab a pervert with her high heels if she had to.

“Onto the second rule. Don't ever ever _ever_ sleep with a guest, but if you do, be as inconspicuous as possible and _tell no one_ because they’ll leave your ass at the next port. You can have as many crew members as you want, nobody cares about that at all. I can't even tell you how many workers I've walked in doing it. _Too many_ is the only real answer.”

Clarke ruminates on that. 

“Rule number three: the crew bar is insanely cheap,” Lexa continues. “It's cheap because they pay us shit and they know it, so take advantage. Have you been there yet?”

“No, I haven't found it yet,” Clarke admits. “I saw something on the second deck, but--”

“That's the officer bar. You’re only allowed in there with an invitation from someone who ranks above crew-- they’re part of the sailing crew, managers, or otherwise important. You'll know they're an officer by the navy strips on the shoulders of their uniforms.” 

“I know who officers are. They have those stupid claw marks on their shoulders, and they're _pretentious as fuck_ ,” Clarke volleys back. She’d been hit on by a greasy-faced engineer in an officer’s uniform three nights ago. He was seriously entitled.

“I don't think I would want to go to their bar anyway,” Clarke adds. “They’re elitist. The officers have it great, and the crew is treated horribly.” Clarke looks away, realizing she's rambling something mildly controversial, and mutters, “I mean officers can go into crew spaces as they please, but if crew goes into their space without an invite, it seems they'll throw them off the ship.”

“You're right,” Lexa admits easily. “It’s outdated. This cruise line is a thousand times better than the others, but it still sucks. It's racist protocol from forever ago, which continues because companies can regularly get away with murder on the water.”

Clarke, surprised, raises her eyebrows. She had half expected to be forced to walk the plank herself for voicing that opinion out loud. “Agreed,” she counters.

“Rule number four is drink more, think less.”

Clarke rolls her eyes.

“I really mean it, though,” Lexa says seriously. “You’ll get burnt out if you don't have fun-- and here, fun is found mostly in terms of alcohol, parties, and sex.”

“Thank you for those incredibly helpful tips,” Clarke deadpans. “Of which I mostly knew.”

“You're welcome, Clarke,” Lexa retorts, smiling before stretching into a long yawn. “I'm going to take a quick nap," she adds. "I have to be up soon, but now that you’ve had a formal education, I can at least relax.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, but nods, watching Lexa manage to curl up in the most uncomfortable-looking position possible in a small collapsible chair and immediately doze off. _It must be a talent at this point_ , Clarke thinks, finally able to read. When it's time to switch the laundry, Clarke debates on waking her, but eventually just switches both their loads with closed eyes, grimacing at the extended effort it takes in the wee unholy hours of the morning. She's exhausted. 

Lexa sleeps consistently. She doesn't look comfortable, but she does look peaceful-- she frowns and smiles interchangeably in her sleep, a subtle vulnerability. Clarke watches the sight for awhile in little glimpses. It’s hard to focus and read when Lexa looks so raw. She’s has three freckles on her nose that are extraordinarily attractive.

Clarke leaves before the odd sleeping creature beside her wakes.

**Day 008**

“We should not be this drunk,” Clarke says.

“We should not,” Octavia repeats, slurring.

Clarke sighs. This was not the plan.

The plan was to go to her first ever weekly staff party and get a reasonable buzz before sneaking onto the top deck, which is technically prohibited as crew members aren’t allowed on guest decks, and take a super quick peek around. Instead, they had been challenged to do repeated shots by Harper, her boss, and Harper’s boyfriend, an enthusiastic Japanese mechanic named Monty. Now, Octavia was _trashed_ and they were wandering around lost on parts of this massive ship Clarke had never seen.

“It's that way,” Octavia mumbles, pointing up. Her straightened black hair is bunched up around her shoulders and her moss-colored eyes are hazy, unfocused-- so essentially her normal look.

Clarke looks up to take in the tiles. She rolls her eyes, mouthing swear words at the wall of the hallway, and murmurs, “Right, but we can't go through the ceiling. Where are the stairs?” 

Octavia shrugs as if she can't be assed and leans more fully on Clarke, who hears a sound behind them. She freezes in terror before hurriedly dashing them both into an alcove to hide. Octavia stumbles.

“They came down here, I swear,” a male says.

Clarke, nearly letting go of her bladder in relief, realizes it's the inebriated voice of Lincoln. He’s loud and vocal when he's drunk, and also Octavia’s fuckfriend, which means she can now transfer over care of Octavia. Though she is already running and/or stumbling toward him as she realized this way before.

Lincoln yells “Babe!” when they collide. 

Clarke steps out, and sees not only Lincoln and Octavia, but also the creature from 2am. 

Lexa’s wearing glasses-- small oval lenses-- tonight. _They’re cute,_ Clarke notes. 

“Clarke,” Lexa greets, smiling. “Where were you two staggering towards?”

“Lexa,” Clarke volleys back accusingly-- surprised. “What are you doing here?” 

“We’ve worked together a lot, so we chill sometimes,” Lincoln interrupts. “Look, I've got to get this girl home.” Octavia’s trying to dance, but failing. Clarke eyes her in amusement. “You good, Clarke?” he asks.

“I'm good. I didn't have as much as her.”

Lincoln nods at her-- then Lexa-- before hoisting Octavia over his shoulder and away. She waves at Clarke upside down and Clarke waves back before cracking up in laughter. She shakes her head. 

Clarke hates to admit it, but sometimes she actually feels fond if her roommate. Mostly when she's drunk, but still. 

“We got to the party a little late, but in time to catch you and Octavia sneaking off through the back door. By the way... thanks for doing my laundry,” Lexa says, an eyebrow raised.

Clarke waves her away. “I just moved it.”

“Yes, but I appreciated it,” Lexa counters forcefully. “Where are you off to?” 

Clarke shrugs, innocent. “Taking a walk.”

“I need to stretch my legs, too,” Lexa replies, walking alongside her. In contrast with Clarke's uniform, she has on casual clothing; dark jeans and a maroon sweater. 

“I guess you can walk with me,” Clarke mutters.

“The plebeian thanks you, Clarke.”

Clarke holds the bridge of her nose, quite possibly too drunk and hot to deal with Lexa’s sass, and takes them in a random direction. She's beginning to understand that she's taking them in a large circle when Lexa feels the need to self-righteously question, “Clarke, do you know where it is you're trying to go?” 

Clarke scowls. “It's a big ship,” she drawls, stopping.

“Are you trying to drunkenly sneak onto the top deck?” Lexa asks her point blank.

“Never. Never ever.”

“Right. Anyway, I know a better route. It's this way,” Lexa points out. 

“And why should I go with you?”

“Because I know a spot where we won't be bothered and I have more booze,” Lexa says, lifting a wood-colored bottle out of her pocket to flash enticingly at Clarke. “Not that you need more, princess.”

Clarke smiles sweetly. “Sure, _Commander Fuckface_ , be my guest and lead the way, but know,” she drawls, “that there won't be any kind of dark corner fumbling. Of any kind.” 

“Dark corner fumbling?” Lexa asks, eyes rippling toward the ceiling. “ _Never ever_ ,” she enunciates just enough to let Clarke know she is, in fact, being severely mocked.

 

“Actually, this isn't half bad,” Clarke admits after thirty minutes. The stars are beautiful.

“Must be something like half good then.” 

“Must be,” Clarke echoes, breathing in the fresh air and letting it line her lungs. It's so nice and calm out here that she can't help but to consider everything; the girl sitting beside her, surely, but also her time here. It’s been barely a week, but it's already less stressful as the days arrange themselves into the same shapes. Life is simple on this boat. Clarke gets up, gets ready, gets flirted with, gets money, gets drunk. Her goals are easier, stupid, but she’s feeling safer lately. Better.

“We’ll be in France tomorrow,” Lexa comments, looking out onto the black glittering ocean. “It takes so long to get here from the States. Going mainland? Do you have time off?” 

“Yeah, I do and I am. I’ve never been.”

“Where have you been?” Lexa asks.

Clarke takes a shot of cognac in her mouth. It's smooth and slides down her throat surprisingly easy. “This is my first trip," she admits after a beat.

“I knew it,” Lexa murmurs in satisfaction.

“And I knew this _wasn't_ your first trip.”

“Why?” 

“You're… practiced,” Clarke replies, tracing the opening of the cognac before tipping it to her mouth again. “This, us, even our conversation, it's just practice for you.”

Lexa raises an eyebrow as she looks at her.“You don't know much about me, Clarke.”

“Defensive,” Clarke retorts.

“It's true,” Lexa says lightly.

Clarke shrugs. “But I’m not wrong.”

“Everything about this ship is simple routine, so yes, maybe I am practiced,” Lexa admits. “And _yes_ , sex happens a lot onboard.”

“Since when were we talking about sex?” Clarke asks, wide-eyed. She manages to make Lexa blush, and she smirks, pushing her hair back. “I see that,” she adds.

Lexa brushes some persistent ocean spray from her hand. “You wouldn't do something like that?” she asks, smiling.

“I didn't say that,” Clarke retorts in a murmur. She looks away, getting that same feeling she had after watching Lexa for a bit-- like she's dangerous, deadly, even though she appears by all accounts quiet and contemplative, wearing glasses and a sweater, and sitting a careful distance away. There's just something more about her, Clarke can tell, some dark cloud that hangs over her, following, and drains her silently.

“But you think you're above it all,” Lexa surmises.

“I don't think I'm better than anyone, Lexa,” Clarke levels with her.

“Actually, you're probably better than a lot of the people that will try to fuck you on this boat, Clarke,” Lexa corrects.

Clarke laughs. “I have sex.”

“You're kidding,” Lexa feigns, unable to curb her mirthful smile when she declares, “I imagined you as a virginal pillow humper.”

Clarke laughs. “No, no, that's ridiculous, but, I mean-- you… you must get attention here.”

Lexa smiles and leans back, resting on outstretched palms. “It's not usually the attention I’m interested in, but occasionally...” 

“Occasionally _what_?”

“ _Occasionally_ , a pretty girl happens to wander along.”

Clarke laughs. “You're gay,” she states.

“Does that surprise you?” Lexa retorts, worry flickering over her face like a thunderstorm.

“No,” Clarke replies quickly. “It doesn't really surprise me at all, actually.” She shrugs.

“Why not?”

“Well, I already knew you were interested in me.” Clarke gestures to the blanket, the cognac, and smiles. “This is cute. I'm sure it’s worked before with a lot of girls, right?”

“Who’s the egomaniac now?” Lexa counters, but curiously. She looks away before adding, “I didn't even know I'd run into you. It just so happens that we both had the same idea of sneaking onto the top deck in mind. This is all by random chance.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Small world,” she murmurs.

“Small boat,” Lexa replies.

Clarke takes another long sip of cognac. “Are you always like this?” she asks.

“Like…?”

“Like… flirty and contradictory?” 

Lexa smiles before shrugging.

“You're quiet when you work the tables-- boisterous… but quiet,” Clarke comments.

“Firstly, that's contradictory,” Lexa points out, lips threatening to smile. “Secondly, you're the flirty one. And I thought you didn't notice me?” 

“Well, I mean,” Clarke stumbles-- she's trying to backstep and fails. “Of course I noticed you.”

“I know you did... Princess Clarke.”

“Yeah? You’re really going to call me that again? Fine. Commander Fuckface is your actual new forever name now. It’s going to catch on, just you wait.”

“I… I like that name.”

“That's because you _clearly_ have a huge ego.”

“I have an average ego for the official record,” Lexa retorts.

“Idiot,” Clarke counters.

“Stop flirting with me, Clarke.”

Clarke chuckles wearily and flops against the deck. She's very drunk, but it's a downright pleasant feeling, especially with the way the ocean spray splashes across her extremely hot cheeks. 

“Where’re you from?” Lexa asks after awhile.

Clarke sighs. “Where’re you from?”

“Oregon.” 

Clarke makes a noise of acknowledgment. “Never been.”

“Don't bother. It's full of white supremacists and drug use. Your turn now.”

“Ohio,” Clarke replies, wincing.

“Mm, right. You're a nice Midwestern girl. Doesn't your family miss you?”

“Doesn't yours?” Clarke retorts.

“Touche,” Lexa replies, grabbing the bottle back and taking a long pull off it.

Long after midnight, Lexa walks Clarke back to her own room and only winks in parting.

**Day 009**

Clarke’s getting off port in France the next time she runs into Lexa. Clarke is dressed casually for once; she has ripped that demeaning uniform off for the last time today and has her travel backpack on. She's ready. But then someone crashes into her from behind and she wobbles, precariously close to falling, before managing to right herself. She turns to give whoever it was-- probably an obnoxious guest-- a tongue lashing or at least a very severe glare, fuck the consequences, but finds Lexa grinning like the fucking Cheshire cat.

Clarke rolls her eyes at the jarring movement, but then frowns. She has a serious hangover.

She could actually vomit.

“Off to see the city for the first time?” Lexa asks. She has her hair in a ponytail and baggy civilian jeans, but her tiny oval glasses are missing. “Don’t get lost or be late,” she adds. “They’ll leave you if you are.” 

Clarke scoffs, and the cloud of figurative death passes. “I don't get lost.”

Lexa laughs. “Incorrect,” she retorts.

“I was drunk,” Clarke mutters.

“You're a lightweight,” Lexa shrugs before winking. “You’ll build up a tolerance quick working here.”

Clarke shoots her an annoyed glance and stomps off, only to look back and find Lexa wandering in the same direction. She's obviously ignoring Clarke’s miffed stare in favor of pretending to admire everything. _It’s stupidly charming_ , Clarke thinks.

Clarke strolls up to her, backwards, and spits, “What are you doing?”

“Appreciating the scenery,” Lexa replies disingenuously. “I thought it was obvious.”

“If you're going to stalk me, at least show me around this place,” Clarke retorts sternly, shifting uncomfortably at Lexa’s answering (teasing) smile. “I don't speak French well-- or... at all.”

“Je connais le français et l' anglais et la langue des femmes, so come along, young one,” Lexa says, as though she was waiting for this moment, this opportunity, and she’s not going to waste it. “You're in luck today. You’ve got the best tour guide in the city.”

Clarke rolls her eyes and smiles sarcastically.

 

They end up walking along a river, and from there, wander around in random little French stores.

“Did you go to college?” Lexa drawls in the fifth one.

“Did you?” Clarke counters. 

“You know, deflecting questions by asking the same question isn't the greatest defense when it comes to these things, Clarke,” Lexa says sensibly.

“Oh, it's worked fairly well until right this second,” Clarke retorts, picking up a postcard.

“Yes, but I'm onto you now,” Lexa explains slowly, putting on a pair of ridiculous sunglasses. They’re blue and covered in fake glittering diamonds. Clarke laughs, and when the owner of the shop glares at Lexa disapprovingly, she laughs louder. “Will you at least tell me how old you are?” Lexa probes.

“22,” Clarke admits, glancing at Lexa’s reaction out of the corner of her eye.

Lexa puts the sunglasses back on the rack and gives her a startled look. “That's young.”

“Maybe,” Clarke shrugs. She's aware she's young and she doesn't like to admit it-- but only because when she does, nobody ever takes her seriously for too long. She knows aside from the interns and some of the dancers, she's definitely one of the younger crewmembers aboard the ship. “You're probably old. 28? 30?” Clarke counters, wildly overestimating to tick Lexa off.

“I'm only 25, Clarke,” Lexa corrects, rolling her eyes as she examines a postcard.

Clarke shrugs, but smiles playfully, bumping into her shoulder. Lexa rolls her eyes again.

 

“I went to Columbia,” Lexa admits randomly. 

Clarke snorts. They're sitting in a creperie, and eating as many as they can at a slow, sluggish pace. “And you're bragging about it? Lexa, your ego is honestly out of control,” Clarke replies.

“I'm not bragging,” Lexa counters. “I just… thought if I told you something about me, you might tell me something about you.”

Clarke sets her crepe down, wiping her fingers as she tries to process this. “What did you major in?” she finds herself asking.

“I was going for prelaw, but I dropped out after a year.”

“Why?” Clarke probes. “Why’d you stop?

Lexa shrugs. “The people there were always so… stressed-- fake. I didn’t want to be that, to turn into that, and I knew that I would eventually if I stayed. So, I didn't.”

“Are the people here happier? Less... fake?” Clarke asks. She's curious to know.

“Some of them,” Lexa shrugs. “I've found it's not so much the place as it is the people. As it turns out, unhappiness is lurking everywhere... but it was far worse there.”

Clarke nods and starts buttering her crepe. It's probably a total faux pas, but she's from Ohio for Christ sakes. “That's kind of depressing,” she admits. “I've actually been feeling happier lately, despite all the ridiculousness of working on a cruise ship.”

“You're adjusting well?” Lexa questions, squinting like she’s wondered before if Clarke is.

Clarke nods and eats some more. After a moment, she deadpans, “I went to Ohio State. I have a degree in the fine arts with a concentration in pottery.”

“Impressive.”

Clarke shrugs. “I guess. I didn't feel stuck at least. I mean I did, but I felt like I had a purpose at least.”

“And you don't now?” 

“I work.”

“Why aren't you making art?” Lexa asks.

“Well, I would need equipment, which is way too large and expensive for me to even think about buying and bringing onboard. But mostly, I just needed a break of making art I think. I want to… just live for awhile instead of thinking about everything so deeply.”

Lexa nods, ironically thoughtful. They sit around in the blistering, wonderful sun in quaint black metal chairs, and do nothing but gorge themselves on crepes and ice water for the next hour. 

Lexa manages to smudge jam on the top rim of her glasses, and Clarke rolls her eyes before she wipes it away with her thumb.

 

Eventually, they dust off all the crumbs and collect themselves from their collective sun-filled exhaustion to visit a corner store to stock up on trivial things like shampoo and snacks. Upon spying a rack filled with burner phones, Lexa gives Clarke the rundown on her actual phone options.

“You think this one will work?” Clarke asks, holding one up with purple packaging.

“Sometimes,” Lexa replies, examining it. “I mean not on the water, but these minutes will work in _some_ of the ports we’ll go to. Your only other option phone-wise is a satellite phone, but they’re super expensive and the service will be, too. If you need to reach someone while we’re on the ocean, the internet cafe for the crew is your best bet. It’ll honestly cost the least.”

“Ah.” Clarke puts it down. “I guess I'll hold off on the phone for awhile. Thanks.”

“You're welcome, princess.”

Clarke narrows her eyes at Lexa for the remark, but her secret-- well, one of the many secrets she floats upon is that she doesn't hate the term nearly as much as she properly should given the context of it’s history. But it's a piece of the past that is slowly becoming modernized in Lexa’s mouth. Clarke has had sex, and she isn't some naive, stupid virgin, but it almost sounds sweet to her ears.

“Sure, Commander Fuckface,” Clarke retorts.

She gathers up the numerous little snacks (mostly chocolate), two bottles of wine (both red), and a thin white bed sheet (for Operation BOSS-- Block Out Sex Sounds) Lexa’s been holding so she can stare at indescribable French phones that won't work.

When she goes to pay, Clarke fumbles with the euros she’s gotten in exchange, clumsy with which is which, so Lexa pushes her out of the way to count out the correct sum herself. 

 

They reluctantly get back on the ship after several hours. Clarke had thought it would be too little time to truly visit the port, and it might have been if she wanted to see the traditional sights, but it's somehow a satisfying trip anyway. Lexa is a good tour guide. 

Now she’s seen Marseille, France in a few hours time. And even finds herself with some time to kill, which on this damned ship is a rarity.

The time off is blissful. Clarke isn't sure how it happens, but somehow or another, she ends up in Lexa’s room. Lexa has the rare crew single, which means that she has a _full-sized_ bed instead of bunk beds and an _actual_ shower instead of a square of lukewarm death. Moreso, it's quiet and private-- it's basically the big jackpot.

Clarke brings the bottles of wine she purchased from the port trip. Lexa steals a bunch of food from the guest buffet ( _What a rebel_ , Clarke chides) and decides to teach her how to play blackjack. They eat, play, and get roaring drunk together. Some time later, they stumble out onto the crew deck, which has a shitty view, just to get some decent air. Lexa leans on Clarke, and Clarke shoots her an amused, sloppy grin.

“You're very blonde,” Lexa whispers-- but she laughs a second later like she’s just drunk.

“Thanks. Back ya at,” Clarke mumbles. She frowns before taking a deep breath and adding, “Damn. You know what I mean. The French do make some incredibly strong wine.”

“I do,” Lexa agrees. “And they do.” 

Clarke accidentally hits Lexa in the arm gesturing to the sea and snorts drunkenly when Lexa sends her an faux offended look. 

“Do you want to do this forever?” Clarke asks after a beat.

“Forever is a long, long time,” Lexa replies without the hint of a smile that's usually hanging on her mouth after so much liquor. Looking out onto the water, she looks almost serious.

“Forever is so long,” Clarke muses. “I hate it.”

“You hate forever?” Lexa asks softly.

“I hate the _word_ forever. Like the concept of it all, you know?”

“Why?” Lexa questions.

“Because forever is a jail,” Clarke answers. 

Lexa fixes her with a long, probing look, but eventually just nods. They separate to their own rooms for the night shortly afterward.

**Day 012**

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Clarke smirks. “I've already been bought three beers, but sure, why not?”

“You're bragging,” Lexa laughs, but she actually does buy her a drink, a sweet Belgian cider called Stella Artois. They're talking about their days and ridiculous guests when Octavia-- strangely sober and serious-eyed-- slides up on the other side of Clarke.

“Griffin,” Octavia greets.

“Octomom,” Clarke retorts, raising her glass in a mock salute. She enjoys the fact that for once she’s the drunk one in their relationship.

“Stop calling me that,” Octavia mutters.

“No.”

“Aww, I think it's cute,” Lexa interjects.

“It's annoying,” Octavia counters. “Have you seen Lincoln? I can't find him anywhere.”

“Nope,” Clarke chirps.

Octavia nods, but then looks over and asks Lexa, “What are you doing here anyway?”

“Mm. Drinking,” is Lexa’s stoic response.

“You two are boring to watch,” Octavia announces as she gets up. “Listen, if there's a sock on the door later, Clarke, knock first or you might see something.” Then she winks.

Clarke grimaces her regret, and takes a long pull off the cider to make up for how much she hears Octavia and Lincoln doing it. "She always forgets the sock."

When Octavia’s mostly out of their hearing range, Lexa says, “She obviously has a voyeur fetish,” under her breath. 

“She's a shit,” Clarke agrees.

Lexa nods. “She didn't even drink.”

“Just _rude_ ,” Clarke whispers into her drink. “I'm not annoying. Bitch.”

“It sounds like she might be having troubles with Lincoln. I mean the only way you can't be found on this ship is if you don't want to be found,” Lexa clarifies. “It’s small.”

“Probably. Love is horrible.”

“It can be.”

Clarke snorts. “Don't tell me you’re one of those people that believe in love.”

“I have no problem with love,” Lexa admits, shrugging. “Love is definitely real. I mean look at a mom and her baby or… or Ellen and Portia, Jacob and Edward, and the like.”

Clarke snorts. “You're incredibly gay. Okay, but like… the princess falling in love with a prince. Fairytale love. That doesn't exist.”

“All heteronormative bullshit.”

“Totally. _Completely_. I think the worst part is that we force feed it to kids. They grow up expecting it to be real, but then they’re untimely and unfairly saddled with the reality... Nobody is completely happy with their life.”

Lexa whistles, and Clarke smiles at her. “Goddamn, Griffin," she says. "You’re depressing.”

“But accurate.”

“Is that how you feel?” Lexa counters. “‘Untimely and unfairly saddled with reality’?”

Clarke eyes her a little sadly. “I guess.”

“Well, after that little spiel, I definitely know you're avoiding something mainland.” Lexa leans closer, and Clarke can smell her perfume, which is earthly and rich. “Did someone break your heart?” she whispers, smiling in an unsympathetic way if her question had turned out to be true.

Clarke grits her teeth and swirls the straw in her beer. “No. Nobody broke my heart.”

“What happened?” Lexa counters, looking repentant and sitting up in an interested air. “I can sense a story.”

“I guess I… broke someone’s heart.”

Lexa raises an eyebrow. “Unexpected.”

“I just love surprising you,” Clarke murmurs, because she doesn't want to elaborate. She’s promised herself, in fact, that she wouldn't ever to anyone here. She intends to leave the past in the past.

When Octavia comes back to challenge Clarke to karaoke, she accepts. She sings until she can't anymore, and Lexa watches her.

**Day 014**

It's the last day of her first cruise, and the casino is running low on customers. Clarke’s wandering around, half-heartedly wielding a cleaning rag, but mostly talking to Lexa. Lexa isn't always there when Clarke is, which is strange considering the casino isn't open 24/7 and there's basically one incredibly long shift they all have to work together, but Clarke figures she has another job she splits the time between. It’s rare, but she knows that it does happen.

When they do occasionally work together, they’ve got in the habit of idly chatting between customers if there’s downtime at all. Clarke’s in the middle of explaining Octavia’s most recent stunt when Lexa interrupts.

“And what exactly does personal time refer to?” Lexa probes.

“It refers to… _personal_ time.”

“And that is?” Lexa’s eyes are twinkling in mirth like she definitely knows the answer.

“I… uh… if you must know, I was using my vibrator, Jesus,” Clarke flushes at the smirk Lexa gives her, but perseveres to push past the embarrassment, “and Octavia fucking bursts into the room _when she was supposed to be working_ and then had the nerve to laugh at me and ask if I needed any help.”

Lexa lets out a peel of her own laughter.

“What the fuck? Who the fuck does that? This shit is getting to me,” Clarke surmises.

“How so?”

Clarke hesitates, but then just says the absolute truth, what she means, for once. “I never have any time alone. I couldn't even finish for fuck’s sake. I’m constantly horny.”

Everybody is going on and on about all the drinking and sexing the crew does-- but they're all right. It's frequently a party in the crew hallways at night, all the doors left open like they're in college and people drifting inbetween with hard liquor in cups. People fuck in the darkest corners they can find, but Clarke hasn't been partaking in the sexual side of things. And seeing all this sex and not having it-- or even being able to vibrate out a few conciliatory orgasms-- is all too frustrating.

Lexa takes several seconds longer to process Clarke's confession than usual, blinking rapidly, but says after a beat, “Find somewhere quiet.”

“Well, I'm not going to go fuck myself in a storage closet, am I, Lexa?” Clarke sighs. “I'm thinking of asking Bellamy Blake for some help on the matter.” 

Lexa raises her eyebrows in question.

“What? Considering they're siblings, I thought it would be an appropriate revenge fuck to do it with Bellamy while Octavia’s in the room. I want to really scar her,” Clarke says lightly. "She's ruining me."

“Twisted,” Lexa informs her seriously. “Incredibly twisted. What you need is not revenge, but earplugs-- not just the sheet. Besides, Blake’s a mountain troll. Likely has the aim and dexterity of one, too.”

Clarke thinks back to Bellamy pounding back shots last night, remembering his angry face as he missed the dartboard every single time he threw a dart. “You're right,” she admits. “He’s ridiculously uncoordinated. And his hands… they’re just huge, aren’t they?” 

Lexa nods. “They are. He probably isn't even aware of what the clitoris is. He’ll probably try to like hit you in the face with his dick or something. Either way, it won't be good.”

Clarke sighs. “I could always try to teach him… anyone can learn, right?”

“There are other, entirely _better_ options,” Lexa says cryptically.

Clarke turns her eyes from one side of the room to the other. “Care to elaborate where?”

“Right in front of you for instance,” Lexa drawls.

Clarke looks behind Lexa to see Harper wiping down the bar. “Who? Harper?” 

“Me, Clarke,” Lexa says, rolling her eyes. “God. I… I could volunteer.”

“Volunteer for what?” Clarke asks carefully.

“Tribute,” Lexa replies, a joking, nervous mess.

Clarke laughs and shakes her head.

“No, but I would really volunteer to fuck you,” Lexa deadpans. It’s so sudden that it reminds Clarke of how Lexa deals out a new card.

Clarke doesn't react well. She chokes, holding up the filthy dust rag as something firmly between them. “W-what?” she rasps, coughing more.

Lexa smiles politely as a customer passes. When he’s gone, she murmurs, “You heard me, champ.” Considering Clarke's reaction, she's incredibly cool about it. 

“But we’re friends...” Clarke nearly yells.

“Ever heard of friends with benefits?” Lexa counters calmly, shrugging. “It's the standard here. Everyone's fucking everyone.”

“They are not,” she insists.

But Clarke knows she's lying to herself. They really are-- and it's _getting to her._

The customer comes back with a drink, sitting to play a round, and they break apart.

 

Later in the crew bar Clarke is becoming incredibly accustomed to after the long, long days of barely compensated servitude, Lexa stops by like she has been lately. Clarke wonders about that, but there's really just not that many places for the crew to go-- the bar, the mess hall, the deck. She vaguely remembers something about a crew library, but has never heard of anyone actually being bored enough to go. Clarke shoots her a small, hesitant smile, and Lexa winds her way over to her, settling down on a bar stool, after stopping to acknowledge a few people.

Clarke’s not sure if she means to, but Lexa continues their discussion from earlier. 

“Everyone really is just fucking all the time,” Lexa says, paying for a $1.50 beer. “I just ran into Monty and Harper doing it in the stairwell. It smelled so bad in there.” She shakes her head, wincing. “I don't know what it is about ships, but they do inspire lots of sex.”

“Gross, but yeah, you are right, I guess,” Clarke counters casually. “Octavia did bring some girl named Raven back to our room yesterday.” She shrugs. “She was hot, so I wasn't like incredibly offended, but goddamnit-- I heard nearly _everything_ they did… like... all _kinds_... of noises.”

“There's another lesbian on the ship?” Lexa asks, sarcastic. “Reyes is one of our fine engineers.”

“She’s a filthy fucking officer,” Clarke amends. “Also, there's several of us queer ones on deck, Captain Oblivious. Wait, I have a question-- do you prefer that or Commander Fuckface?”

“Commander Fuckface,” Lexa replies off hand, still too busy mentally calculating the implications of Clarke’s statement to think too hard about it. “You aren't straight?”

“Pansexual,” Clarke corrects. “You really didn't pick up on that? But you offered to service me, Captain Oblivious.”

Lexa stills. “I mean I felt... it,” she admits, swallowing. She darts a quick glance at Clarke, who is dually rolling her eyes repeatedly and smirking at her discomfort. “I thought you were being straight girl flirty. I mean I figured you were interested-- but… sort of... scared of me. Maybe.” 

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Dumb, Lexa. First off, you started talking _to me_ first, so I’d have to argue that you are, in fact, interested in _me_. Secondly, we’re friends and I don't have many here yet. I don't want to make this weird or… or complicated or shit. Thirdly, I’m not scared of you. How could I be?”

“Some people here are scared of me," Lexa admits.

“Because…?” Clarke drawls.

“Because I’ve killed dozens of men,” Lexa replies casually, but she watches Clarke carefully.

Clarke widens her eyes and nearly spits out her drink. “What?” 

“I was in the Navy,” Lexa elaborates. “Some people here know that and are scared of me.” 

“Oh-- well. The killing was allowed?” Clarke takes a drink. “I mean it was war, I assume?” 

“Something like it,” Lexa confirms, face darkening. She looks away. Clarke intends on giving her the space to feel whatever it is she's feeling. She stares blankly at the television in the corner of the bar for a moment, but then Lexa says after a beat, “I can seperate fucking and a relationship. As they say in the phamplets, there's no room for jealousy on a vessel this size. Anything between us would be casual… purely needs-based.”

Clarke just scoffs. Lexa’s ominously announced she’s killed _dozens of men_ and that really shouldn’t be working her stomach into knots of arousal, but-- the lack of sex _is_ obviously getting to her. The crazy thing is that she's actually considering Lexa's proposal. She's actually considering fucking _Lexa_ , who has magnificently gorgeous hair and looks entirely too wicked in a good game of blackjack and is her _coworker_ /new bff aboard that has killed _dozens of men_. But in war; it was war and that happens in war.

Clarke knows it’s wrong-- a fantasy she can get off to, but can never ever actually admit to-- but she thinks of Lexa with blood on her face and a sword in her hand. In reality, it’s probably more like a gun, but when she thinks of that visual… when she thinks of the danger of that, Lexa’s quiet, gentle strength, of how Lexa would probably wield it to fuck her incredibly, she can’t help but flush a vivid red and cross her legs.

Lexa watches her quietly and seems to sense her feelings on some level, because she drains her beer and softly asks, “Come back with me to my room?”

 _Bold._ There’s no doubt of what Lexa means, it’s written all over her face. Clarke pretends to think it over, but then actually does. “It won't get in the way?” she asks.

“It won't be a thing at all,” Lexa promises.

“It would only be the sex,” Clarke warns, her heart thumping wildly as she sips the last of her cider and plays with the neck of the bottle. “I'm a free agent.”

Lexa smiles-- it's sharp, and sexual, and intimidating. “That’s encouraged.”

“If we go to your room and do the no pants dance,” Clarke says awkwardly, but on purpose, so she won't faint of shitty beer and arousal, “Will you still come here to drink and talk with me occasionally?”

“I'm here, aren't I? It's the spot.”

“And you won't become all sweet and doting towards me? You’ll act the same?”

“Clarke,” Lexa drawls, smiling faux-sweetly as her intention-filled, sinful eyes meet Clarke’s. “I won't even look you in the face while we fuck if you don't want it.” 

Clarke laughs as something sinks in her belly-- probably her sense of self-preservation or her desire to keep above it all. _Fuck, the things that come out of this girl’s mouth._ It’s a rude statement, but somehow, it does comfort her. Clarke looks around the sweltering room, full of sweaty crew workers making the best or at least the drunkest of their time here, and shrugs.

“Fuck it. Let's.” 

 

So, they do. 

Lexa closes the door, and really, there's not a lot of room. It takes her two large steps to cross the small space and push Clarke up against the wall. They stare at each other for a long moment, and Clarke is tipsy from the liquor, but very much _there_ , nervous and shaking slightly, and already trying to decide how Lexa will fuck. In her experience, quiet people fuck harder and loud people fuck softer. It's not a scientific model or anything, but a pretty tried and true theory.

Lexa isn't like that, though. In all truth, Lexa fucks her theory completely sideways. General predictions aside, she's nothing that Clarke really expects or can simply classify. First, she kisses Clarke-- forceful but sweet as if there's no rush. There isn't a rush, technically, except for Clarke definitely feels the need to rush. She’s worked up, and Lexa is gorgeous, and it's been _forever_.

Lexa’s leaving little marks on her neck that sting in an addicting but unfulfilling way when Clarke gets impatient and grabs her hand and directs it to her center, where it stills.

“Clarke,” Lexa chides throatily.

“What?” Clarke replies in a wilting tone.

“I'm taking my time.”

“And what if I want you to take _me_?”

Lexa blooms in a smile. “I already knew that.”

“I didn't,” Clarke murmurs.

Lexa levels her with a look, but doesn't call her bluff as it's apparent when Clarke surges forward to kiss her again. By the time they run out of air, their lips are swollen and Clarke's pawing at anything she can reach.

“You're cute,” Lexa comments.

“Now is _not_ the time,” Clarke replies.

“Now is _exactly_ the time.”

“Ugh,” Clarke groans. “I don't like you.”

“Clearly,” Lexa deadpans. “What do you like sexually?” 

“I like… sex…”

“I assumed that, Clarke,” Lexa counters, rolling her eyes to the ceiling and laughing. “I meant what gets you off? What do you think about when you’re having sparkly princess vibrator time?” 

“My god,” Clarke mutters. “I don't know, but never call it that again. There's no sparkles.”

“Disappointing. I imagined it. Now-- do you like it soft or slow or fast or hard or upside down?”

“Does anyone like it upside down, Dr. Seuss?” Clarke counters with a raised eyebrow. “Do you? Is that your secret fetish?”

“I like it hard, but slow,” Lexa just says, leaning down to kiss her neck lazily again.

“That's kind of a contradiction, huh?” Clarke comments, the sea air giving her a husky rasp as she put an arm around Lexa’s neck.

“We’re all walking contradictions here, Clarke. What are you?” 

“Green Day?” Clarke smirks. “ _Really_?”

Lexa rolls her eyes. “I use it in the general sense of the term.”

Clarke looks down and considers the earlier question. “I don't know… soft but... rough?” 

“See, I sort of predicted that,” Lexa replies, pushing her into the wall harder.

Clarke, embarrassed, squirms at the giant rush of endorphins that race through her.

“Don't ever play blackjack for money,” Lexa murmurs matter of factly into her neck. Her hands are tender, wandering over her wrists as light as calm water lapping at the shore.

“And why not?” Clarke, indignant, whispers.

“You're a complete giveaway,” Lexa deadpans. Clarke makes a vague sound, trying to forgot conversation, but Lexa isn't having that as she continues to murmur, “Tell me, how _rough_ do you like it?”

“I don't know,” Clarke murmurs. Lexa’s hands are still on her, but they’ve moved down to caress her hip bones, her thighs, her-- _oh_.

“Do you like your hair pulled?” Lexa asks, peppering kisses down her neck and pulling her collar away from her skin to press firm kisses to her lower.

“I think,” Clarke squeaks. It's not like she's super shy or anything, she can definitely match Lexa’s smartassness stroke for stroke, but something about the tone of Lexa’s voice, so assertive and confident, and her roving, careful hands is making her feel a bit too naked.

Lexa slides a hand into her hair, but applies no pressure-- yet. Clarke can feel the tension in her hand coiling like a promise. It makes her wet.

“Do you like being slapped or spanked?” Lexa questions in an entirely indecent tone.

Clarke blushes as if this is the dirtiest thing she's ever heard. Outside of the internet and filthy books, it basically is. “Maybe…?”

“You're not a virgin, are you?” Lexa asks, wrenching away with the abrupt thought.

“God, no, Lexa. I'm just not as open as you. I've never talked about it… like this…”

Lexa closes her eyes in relief. “Thank god.”

“Are you religious?” Clarke counters.

Lexa cracks a smile. “Catholic by birth, but no. Lights on or off?” 

Clarke steps out of her arms to flick them off. It gives her the chance to relishes and to study the oddness in front of her. “Catholic, huh? Interesting. Kiss me and figure out the rest without narration."

“Is that your fetish?” Lexa jokes. “Not speaking a single word during the entire act?”

“No, but I'm curious now. What's _your_ fetish?”

Clarke’s eyes adjust to the dark, and she notes the way Lexa looks slightly caught off guard. “That's privileged information.”

“We’re about to fuck, Lexa. It doesn't get much more privileged than that for you.”

Lexa laughs. “I like it when you're sassy. Or mad. Is that wrong? Your face is just so...”

“Not wrong, no,” Clarke fills in after a beat.

Lexa nods blankly before reaching forward to pull Clarke’s shirt up and off. “Okay?”

“Yes,” Clarke breathes. The shirt is thrown and Lexa fingers the straps of her bra-- a lacy blue contraption with ample cleavage.

“You're gorgeous.”

Clarke smiles. “You say that to everyone.”

“Not everyone,” Lexa replies.

“You gonna write poetry about it or do it?”

Lexa smiles, and looks away, before grabbing Clarke playfully and throwing her on the bed.

 

Lexa wanders up to the crew deck for some air and Clarke follows. It's late-- the odd time right after midnight where everything is simultaneously exciting and draining. The guests are drunk, but the crew members are probably drunker at this time of night. A few of them mill about on deck and drink or smoke, but none that Clarke can explicitly recognize.

“You aren't half bad at the no pants dance,” Lexa throws out.

“Wow. You're an _actual_ child, aren't you?” 

“You said it first,” Lexa scoffs, rolling her eyes. “I am extremely tired.”

“Me too,” Clarke agrees. “We should get some sleep.” She stands, nearly toppling over from the intense wind and too many orgasms. Her legs are like jelly. “Thanks,” she adds. “For-- well, you know what. I’ll see your half bad ass later, Commander Fuckface.”

“Stay casual, princess,” Lexa calls.

Clarke flips her off over the shoulder.

**Day 015**

Whereas Clarke’s first cruise was a one way transAtlantic venture stopping around popular destinations in Europe, this one focuses on going around the cape of Africa. They've switched to a new arrival destination, but it’s the same (old, falling apart) ship. Despite the trickle of people replacing the few crew members whose contracts have ended, the cast of crew haven’t changed really changed either.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Lexa says, winking.

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Ready for the first day back? Not that we get a day off or anything decent like that,” she adds bitterly.

“Yeah,” Lexa agrees, playing with her chips. She looks innocent, and Clarke is reminded of her earlier words-- of the things she’s done, of how they are probably what haunts her. “It’s the bimonthly routine,” she adds. “Most cruises last two weeks, but some one and some three.”

“At least the places change, though,” Clarke shrugs, trying to be positive. “I don’t have any time scheduled off for the ports this trip. I won't be able to get away at all like last time.”

Lexa nods and shoots Clarke an assessing glance. “I know getting away is important for you. You’ll have more seniority soon, so you might get to get off twice or something on the next cruise.”

“Is it not important for you? Isn’t that the point of working on a cruise ship-- exploring new places?”

Lexa shrugs, and tosses a chip up to briskly catch it mid air. “It gets old. After awhile, you see everything. I have two months of contract left and four year’s wages saved, so I think I'll finally be done after this.”

“What will you do?” Clarke probes.

“I own a boat,” Lexa replies. “It's big. I'll probably sail around and do cargo transport for money.” She shrugs again. “I was thinking about getting a dog maybe.”

Clarke nods, feeling oddly glum. She can hardly imagine a life of that much adventure. They’re moving to different places every day, but the cruise line owns her and she’s rarely even able to see the ports they land in from the windows of the casino or her room. And then, there’s the question of what will happen after. She’s still trying to take it day by day; she doesn't even want to think what's in store for her beyond this contract.

“You planning on sailing the word forever?” Lexa questions, inadvertently forcing her to explicitly consider her options.

Clarke sighs. “No, I don't think so,” she finally decides. “Just for awhile.”

“Until it blows over?”

“Until _what_ blows over?”

Lexa smiles. “Until whatever it is that needs to blow over does so.”

“Nothing needs to blow over, Lexa. It's all done with now. I left it. And whenever I get off this boat, I'm not ever going back to that place,” Clarke clarifies. 

“Not to Ohio?” Lexa asks.

Clarke nods curtly.

“What happened there? Did someone… did he hurt you?” Lexa probes. 

Clarke raises an eyebrow. “How do you know it’s a he?”

“Did _she_ hurt you?”

Clarke sighs. “It is a he, but-- it's complicated.”

Lexa holds her hands up, a surrendering motion, and says, “It's your business, Clarke.”

“Well, you _asked_.”

Lexa looks away. “I'm sorry,” she says, soft.

“It's fine,” Clarke counters. “It's not like my hometown is that bad-- I mean nearly everyone is racist and judgamental-- but I also sort of outgrew it there. I don’t want to go back. I don't fit anymore."

Lexa leans forward and shuffles the deck again idly. “If you could go anywhere, where would you live?” she asks with a half smile.

“I don't know,” Clarke answers honestly. “I like it on here because we go everywhere.”

Octavia bursts into their bubble-- her hair is sticking up in the back and she's wobbling on her high heels like she's probably still drunk. “Have you two fucked yet?” she deadpans. 

“You smell like beer,” Clarke retorts.

Octavia picks up a chip off Lexa's table and flips it off somewhere. “Answer the question.” 

Lexa snorts her way to the chip, but says nothing. 

“I suppose _not_ then. That's smart. People suck. They tell us there’s no room for jealousy aboard,” Octavia remarks. “That's what they say at least. Reality is different.”

Clarke redirects her attention easily. “Speaking from personal experience?” 

“Raven…” Octavia frowns. “Ugh, Lincoln. I want them both.”

“Right,” Clarke glares, “I heard all about your attempt at polygamy a few times this morning when Raven was, you know, going down on you.” Lexa looks down to chuckle. “I'm not an expert on the subject," Clarke continues, "but she definitely didn't seem very... um-- receptive to that suggestion.”

“Oops. Sorry,” Octavia drawls with absolutely no remorse. “She's… _very_ good at what she does, you know, like--”

“I know already. I don't want to know more,” Clarke interrupts.

“Your loss. I mean... if you... _were curious_ about experiencing it firsthand--”

“Again, no,” Clarke says, rolling her eyes. 

Lexa whistles. “Whoa. That could be--”

“Who says you're invited?” Clarke retorts, but it's all hypothetical. She's not having sex with her roommate or _anyone_ \-- excluding her new friend (with benefits) situation with Lexa.

Octavia looks Lexa over appraisingly and says, “Well, she is our friend, Clarke…” 

“Shut up, Octomom,” Clarke retorts. “Calm yourself. Go drink a water before Harper notices how drunk you still are, you dumbass.” 

Octavia huffs away, which is lucky, because it's a weak, ineffective retort. Harper is currently wedged into the back room with a cold towel over her head and a vanilla coke as Adele’s croon plays in the background. Clarke’s honestly not sure if she’s been broken with or if it's just a super bad hangover, but there's no way she’s going to notice or care about Octavia right now.

Lexa can barely contain her impending case of the chuckles until Octavia’s gone.

“You're annoying, too,” Clarke reprimands.

The casino gets super busy and Octavia sends Clarke knowing glances that she avoids all afternoon.

**Day 017**

“Come on, Clarke…”

“Octavia, I want a moment of peace. Go fuck in his room for once, god.”

“Please?” Octavia begs. “He lives with a creeper.” 

Clarke snorts. She likes Octavia _sometimes_ , but she’s most likely the creeper in this and any situation. She is, in fact, the one fucking two people behind each of their backs. Octavia even admits it's not her brightest plan and it will all blow up in fiery ruins, but assures Clarke that the amount and intensity of sex and her orgasms have never been better and that it's worth it.

“Everyone is getting off early because of the storm,” Octavia pleads. “They’re shutting the guests in their rooms. I haven't seen him in literally _forever_ \-- like 16 hours.”

“Oh my god,” Clarke sighs. “You’re ridiculous, but if it makes you stop talking, fine.”

“Thank you! He's bringing alcohol.”

“I mean he's definitely welcome,” Clarke amends, relaxing into downward dog. Lincoln’s always doing yoga, and she’s taken to doing a few poses to stretch her body out after a long shift.

“Do you want to watch the Titanic or Breakfast at Tiffany’s?” Octavia says, fiddling with the remote to the jank little TV in the wall.

“Not the Titanic again,” Clarke retorts, hoping they actually do lose electricity if Octavia chooses that one. “Especially not now during the storm…”

Everything’s violently rocking from side to side, and for the first time ever, Clarke’s becoming mildly seasick. She can hear and feel the rain pounding against the sides and upper decks of the groaning, shifting boat. She eventually stops doing yoga because she keeps falling over. She mills about until someone knocks on their door and she jumps. It's Lincoln, though-- but not just Lincoln filters in sneakily. _Lexa_ follows.

“You didn't say she’d be here,” Clarke stage whispers, grimacing in an attempt to bother Lexa.

But she isn’t bothered. “You didn't mind me the other day,” Lexa retorts with a sharp smile.

Clarke avoids her retort by examining her cuticles. Lincoln and Octavia embrace passionately, kissing with literal tongue, and Clarke is forced to drag her eyes up to Lexa, who merely raises an eyebrow before winking.

“What?” Octavia says, head swiveling between the two. “You two finally did it?”

“Maybe,” Clarke shrugs. She hates her for noticing. Octavia has the most confusing love life of them all, but she has a knack for nosing into hers.

“Was it beautiful?” Octavia asks.

Clarke pretends to think about it. “I don't know. Lexa's got weird fetishes,” she settles on. _That ought to embarass her sufficiently,_ she thinks.

Lincoln snorts and elbows Lexa, who rolls her eyes at all of them.

“She was a willing, eager participant,” Lexa clarifies.

Clarke knows she was, so there's no need to confirm it out loud. She smirks slightly in return.

“I'm just glad it's out of the way,” Octavia states. “Now, I don't have to feel all this built up tension between you two. It was ridiculous, I swear.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, mouth tightening, before she casually stretches out and smacks Octavia in the arm. “You're one to talk, Octomom.”

“I'd love to put that many babies in you,” Lincoln whispers into Octavia’s ear. It's quiet, but the way sound carries onboard has Lexa and Clarke scrambling up in a desperate recoil. Clarke just starts shrieking inherently, but then Lexa begins with, “Why in the actual _fuck_ would you--”

“That's fucking disgusting!” Clarke interjects, finally settling on something.

Octavia clears her throat, emitting a sound that cuts through their loud declarations, and replies, “Thanks. That's sweet, Lincoln.”

“You want to be pregnant with eight babies at the same time? That's not sweet, it's sadistic,” Lexa retorts.

“You called me annoying when I call you that and I’m not even creepy about it!” Clarke yells. She moves closer to Lexa and whispers, “I feel unsafe-- like I might get secondhand pregnant… or... or cum on my sheets again.” She shoots Octavia a scorn-filled look.

“Let's get out of here,” Lexa agrees. “I know a little passage we can use to go to my room.”

“Lead the way.” Lexa does, and then Octavia and Lincoln start making out, so Clarke steals the coconut rum Lincoln brought to share to teach a critical lesson to them on being clear, actual sex maniacs.

“I've actually heard him say way, way worse,” Clarke admits as they're tiptoeing to Lexa’s. They’re technically supposed to be in their rooms as well, but Clarke wouldn’t care at this point if she got washed away. “That was mild,” she adds. “They're both sort of insane in bed. I mean, Octavia was around for the 50 Shades fiasco and all, but they take it weirder and farther.”

Lexa shoots Clarke a disturbed expression. “Gross. Don’t tell me anymore. Please.”

Clarke nods. She doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. They get to Lexa’s room without further incident and end up stripping to their skivvies in a rousing game of strip/rum Go Fish.

Clarke is much better at this game than blackjack, but Lexa is _practiced_.

 

“That's it. You lost,” Lexa says victoriously, throwing the cards down.

Clarke shrugs. “Oh well.”

“That doesn't bother you? You’re competitive.”

“You are too!” Clarke says, but then shrugs. “We’re going to bang it out anyway, right?”

“True,” Lexa nods, taking off her briefs.

Clarke watches her, and her smile, and seemingly out of nowhere, the words “We're doing it again...” stumble out of her mouth.

“Is that alright?” Lexa asks, letting her briefs snap back down. “Should we talk?” 

“I just… no, it's okay, I was just saying,” Clarke replies, nearly dying of mortification.

“If you're sure, I'm sure.” Lexa says-- eyes wide, naked, hair wild. Clarke drinks in the sight of her like a fine red wine. “We don't have to do this if you don't want to…”

“I want to. The sex is good.”

Lexa nods, and relaxes. “It is.”

“But you have to tell me what you like now.”

Lexa raises an eyebrow. “Like my secret fetish that you apparently know all about?”

“Yeah,” Clarke replies, laughing. She relaxes, her shoulders lowering after that intensity.

“Octavia thinks we have excellent sexual chemistry,” Lexa comments.

Clarke flushes immediately, trying to justify it on the alcohol, but knows that it's coming from some renewed embarrassment. “I-- a little. Don't we?”

“We do. The sex is good,” Lexa confirms.

“It is,” Clarke retorts, rolling her eyes at Lexa’s cute (smug) expression. “But don't think you can get out of answering what I asked with compliments.”

Lexa shrugs. “Well, my fetish is honestly pretty basic-- you know, making pretty girls like you orgasm. I'm simple like that.”

“I had a sneaking suspicion you were a basic bitch,” Clarke snorts, but some part of her reacts, contracts, violently to Lexa's words. “Thanks for confirming.”

“You're the actual worst,” Lexa responds, pushing Clarke onto the bed.

**Day 022**

“I'm so fucking tired,” Clarke says over the roar of the TV. It's fucking Titanic, so she looks elsewhere. “I have tomorrow half off. I’m just going to sleep.”

“Lucky,” Lexa replies, dark circles under her eyes making her look a little worse for the wear herself. 

“Am I? Raven and Octavia won't stop doing the no pants dance right under me.”

“That wording sounds worse than the actual bunk bed situation,” Lexa points out.

“Yeah,” Clarke says, sipping at her beer half-heartedly. “This job sucks sometimes.”

“Do you want to come to mine?”

“I would, but I need to crash before I snap and murder someone,” Clarke says darkly.

“I meant to sleep. I have the single, so there’d be no loud fucking unless it was--well, us.”

“Really? Yes,” Clarke replies immediately.

“Griffin!” someone yells. 

They turn to see Bellamy, Octavia, and Raven moving through the bar to them. Clarke groans and Lexa sips her beer in preparation. The crew bar is loud and stinking tonight, too overwhelming, and Clarke just wants to get out and go to sleep in a big bed.

“Hey,” Clarke says weakly.

“You two are looking great tonight,” Bellamy says slowly, blinking. “Especially together.”

“You're drunk,” Clarke mutters.

Lexa winks, and says, “Go fuck yourself.” _Blunt and practical_ , Clarke thinks, admiring Lexa’s easy confidence.

Raven, still wearing her officer uniform, chuckles before slapping Lexa on the back. “Still as blunt as ever, Driftwood.” 

“Probably should, though, Bell,” Octavia chimes in, hitting him with a hand clutching a beer. “You're wasted and they're honestly way too into each other to ever want to be with you.”

Lexa rolls her eyes, hands the glass to the bartender, and stands. “Look, Clarke or not, I wouldn't fuck the boy if he was the last caveman on Earth. _Never_.”

“Clarke, huh? She your new sailor’s wife?” Raven asks Lexa.

Clarke's familiar with the term-- it refers to someone taking a sidepiece at sea while a wife remains on land. Is Lexa fucking _married_? 

Clarke, whirling around on Lexa, asks as much.

Lexa smiles at her. “No. Raven’s exaggerating.” 

“It doesn’t always mean someone who is cheating,” Raven explains, smirking. “It can also mean the person you’re becoming close to. Like, you know, you and Commander Fuckface.” 

Clarke frowns, calming, but then rolls her eyes. “I’m glad that’s catching on, but fuck off, Reyes.” 

Raven salutes sassily, but doesn't move. 

Lexa pushes her hair to one side, slaps a tip onto the bar, an action making a shallow thump, and slowly drawls, “Are you coming, princess?” 

“You should stay and drink more, princess,” Bellamy interrupts-- his hair is a tangled mess and his tone is frantic, sloppy.

Lexa sighs, a hint of an eye roll appearing. Her fingers drum on the bar counter and Clarke watches them for a long moment. “She only likes it when I call her that," she explains as though Bellamy is particularly dim-witted, which at this drunk he is.

“Yeah, ew, don't try that again,” Clarke replies, throwing down the rest of her beer.

“Y’all are sickening,” Octavia snorts. 

“What are you even doing in the crew bar anyway, _officer_? Go be with your own kind.” Bellamy slurs, socking Lexa’s arm as she stands. Lexa shrugs it off with a cool expression.

Clarke raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“The officers have their own bar--” Bellamy, glaring at Lexa, starts loudly.

“Yeah, I know that,” Clarke interrupts, turning to aim a skeptical look to Lexa and ask, “Are you really an officer?” 

Lexa shrugs. “Yes. I wasn’t hiding it.”

“You’re an _officer_?” Clarke asks, mouth dropping open as her brows narrowed. “Do you mean that I’ve… I’ve been _fucking_ an officer?!”

“Yup. You didn't know dear old Lexa was an officer, princess?” Raven probes, smiling.

“Don't call me that,” Clarke snaps. “That's not a thing. I can't believe I've been fucking the enemy and _nobody bothered to tell me_.” She looks directly (accusingly) at Octavia.

Octavia shrugs. “I thought you knew.”

“I'm not the enemy, Clarke,” Lexa retorts. 

“No, you're my _oppressor_ ,” Clarke spits.

“Despicable,” Bellamy mutters, getting twisted up on the last syllable.

“I wasn't purposely hiding it,” Lexa insists sincerely, putting a soft hand on Clarke’s waist. “You did my laundry. I thought you knew.” 

Clarke thinks back, but remembers her fog of exhaustion, how she wasn’t even paying attention to what she transferred over to the dryer all those days ago. She didn’t want to pry.

"But I've badmouthed the entire establishment in front of you," Clarke says.

Lexa shrugs. "We badmouth each other all the time."

"Yeah, but I can't believe you didn't tell me..."

“Okay, damn, Clarke, you're making it sound like she’s Hitler or Donald Trump or something,” Octavia says, taking a sip of beer. “There’s tons of perks to dating an officer-- they have single rooms, the officer bar, the officer dining, and they know shit. You know, with the mafia.”

"Well, I guess I know why I'm so attractive to you now," Raven mutters, finishing her beer. 

"Aww, baby," Octavia cooes, kissing her. 

Clarke thinks about how she’s trying to take advantage of the first benefit right now, and then wonders vaguely about the mafia and what that means, before she gives up and groans in frustration. Without another look at anyone, she gets up and leaves the bar. 

Lexa gives Raven a tense look until the latter officer sighs and says, “Well? Go after the girl.”

Lexa does.

 

Clarke notices the blackjack dealer/ _apparent officer_ following her, so she leads them back to Lexa’s room.

“I didn't figure you would be in the mood to come over after this,” Lexa remarks a touch anxiously. Clarke shrugs at her and stands back so she can unlock the door.

“I was overly dramatic to get away from the wonder triplets… you do have a single room.”

Lexa nods. “It's a nice bonus.“

But then Clarke retorts with a flare of anger, “I should have known, but _how_? How are you even an officer? You work as a dealer. I’ve seen you… I work _with you_ there.”

“Not always. I’m the assistant manager at the casino, but I work as a dealer, too.”

“But I met the manager for the casino,” Clarke retorts indignantly. 

“And now, you've met the assistant manager,” Lexa counters, pulling Clarke in the room so she can shut and lock the door.

“So, that's where you go on the days I don't see you-- into an office to do some boring assistant _manager_ things probably involving a calculator and calculus and files.”

Lexa nods. Minus the calculus, that’s about it, actually.

“Everything's changed,” Clarke moans. “I'm screwing an officer. We’re on the wrong sides of the war and this is going to destroy all of my plans. How am I going to overthrow the racist patriarchy _now_?” 

“Okay, _now_ you're being overly dramatic. You can still overthrow the racist patriarchy.”

“Wait, does that mean that you're my boss?” Clarke asks in a sudden burst of horror.

“I don't have anything to do with the bar,” Lexa corrects, keeping eye contact while taking her watch off. Clarke swallows, forgetting her prior feelings. “My position has a lot of downtime, so that's why I also fill in and deal blackjack occasionally. The tips are honestly amazing. Plus, I enjoy it. Pretty girls and all.”

“You aren't going to fire me if I stop sleeping with you, are you?” Clarke mutters slowly.

Lexa sighs, and moves to sit on the full-sized bed to take her shoes off. “Well, Clarke, are you planning on not sleeping with me anymore?”

“No,” Clarke replies, but then thinks. “Well, maybe, now. Are you seriously saying you would fire me for not sleeping with you?”

“I'm very much not saying that,” Lexa amends, rolling her eyes. “Look, I'm not an asshole. You can say stop whenever and it will never affect anything about your job. I wouldn't fuck you over like that. I'm not even in charge of anyone on the bar, just the casino staff.”

Clarke nods, and feels an inch appeased as she considers the new facts. Harper is her boss, which is great because she’s totally cool, so Lexa is only technically like... Harper’s boss. _Oh, whatever. Big bed, private room._ She strips off her outfit, high heels first then her dress, and Lexa takes off her shirt.

“Won't people talk shit about me for fucking you?” Clarke asks after a beat, folding her uniform neatly.

Lexa shrugs. “They probably were talking shit about us before any of this ever happened. The ship is a gossip mill, and everyone and everything is up for speculation, but sex between officers and crew happens all the time in various pairings. Everyone--”

“Fucks everyone,” Clarke interrupts.

“You're learning so well,” Lexa praises sarcastically, climbing into bed in her birthday suit. Clarke leaves her underwear on for some protection and twists to calmly turn the lights off. It’s all strangely domestic. They don’t touch, but Clarke can feel the warmth of Lexa like a mirage, like a dream. It’s comforting, except Clarke knows on some level that sleeping without fucking is really weird and sort of crossing the line. She could get used to this-- but she really shouldn’t. 

 

“Are you asleep?” Clarke whispers after a half-hour of staring at the ceiling.

“Not even remotely,” Lexa replies, sighing.

“It's so unbearably hot today,” Clarke counters. “Can't sleep. Need to sleep.”

“A shower might help?” 

“It might.” Clarke rolls over to face Lexa. “Thanks for letting me sleep here.”

Lexa nods before sitting up and saying, “If you want the shower, you have to get up.”

“Coming,” Clarke groans, wrenching herself out of the most comfortable bed of the ship.

They really aren't supposed to take long showers here, but they do anyway, staring at each other under bad lighting. Lexa slaps a bar of soap on Clarke's face, lathering it around in such a jerked way that it makes Clarke crumble in laugher. She retaliates by spreading shampoo all over Lexa’s collarbones, but Lexa catches her slippery hands and holds them beside against the wall, turning their sleepy moment into a charged one with a flick of the wrist. She's skilled like that.

Arousal rises so quickly in her gut that Clarke has to swallow it down. She's already wet.

Lexa watches her, drinking in the way the water slides over her skin, collecting in drops, and the ragged manner in which Clarke heaves. Her left hand snakes down Clarke’s belly to stroke the soft, pale skin, and then it moves further south. Clarke inhales sharply when it reaches the swollen target.

“Mmm?” she asks.

“Wait for it,” Lexa replies, voice hazy.

“You like teasing. You _are_ a tease.”

“Maybe I like seeing you worked up.”

“Sadistic bastard.”

“I'll give you the first, but my parents are married, Clarke,” Lexa murmurs silkily.

“Tell me about them.”

Lexa stills. “You want me to tell you about my parents while I touch you?”

Clarke groans, and her eyes open. They’re so blue that for a minute Lexa can only stare. “God, no, I'm sorry. Just… talk. You're quiet, but I like when you talk.”

“Alright then,” Lexa replies, recovering instantly. “I like... your skin. It's incredibly smooth.”

“I like your tattoos,” Clarke says. She traces the blue octopus weaving through a vivid green anchor on Lexa’s bicep. “This one is really awesome.”

“Thank you.” Lexa examines the anchor. “I got this one in a little hole in the wall in Fiji.”

“Where did you get the one on your back?” 

“NYC, actually.”

Clarke ushers Lexa to turn around to examine the perfectly straight line down her back, which depicts every phrase of the moon. “Why did you choose it in particular?” she questions, tapping the circles.

“Because everything bends to the moon in this world.” Lexa shrugs. “Even the sea,” she adds.

“Even menstruation,” Clarke counters.

Lexa laughs, and slathers soap onto Clarke’s nose. “That, too,” she murmurs.

Clarke wipes it off and smiles at her.

 

Clarke gives Lexa her space after she leaves the next morning. She’s peaceful and alert, finally, after a long sleep, so she's able to pass the next few days working and the nights wandering around with Octavia through crowded hallways full of the smell of beer and tobacco smoke and sex.

**Day 025**

“You've almost survived a month on this decrepit old ship. You still like it?” Octavia asks, shoveling oatmeal into her mouth. “You still think you’re on a magical fucking seatime adventure, Clarke? Think you're going to ride some narwhals and reach enlightenment and be happy forever? Well, you’re not,” she rants, tapping the side of her bowl loudly with the spoon. “Wake up. The sea is dark and gross and scary as shit. Plus the guests are horrible and the staff is worse.”

“Oh my god, don’t be so dramatic. You’ve had no sleep and are in a terrible mood. It doesn't suck all the time,” Clarke replies. 

Octavia’s bitter about her Lincoln and Raven love triangle situation. She wants both; Clarke knows this because she’s had to hear her passionately argue with Lincoln about it, who is so not okay with it but knows something is happening, for the past three nights. Aside from that, it's the final days of the second cruise, and Clarke has a little over three months left of the contract she’d signed. It is a tiring job and being trapped doesn't help, but she already feels different, thank god, and weathered-- like she's actually living her own life instead of existing in someone else’s. It's freeing. It’s... everything.

Octavia rolls her eyes. “Just wait. You'll hit a wall of unbelievable exhaustion.”

“I think I got there awhile ago,” Clarke admits. “Definitely not helping with the midnight arguing sessions.” Octavia has the grace to look guilty, but then Clarke spots Lexa, much worse for wear, stumbling blearily toward them, and doesn’t care anymore.

“Hey,” Lexa mumbles, letting her tray loudly fall to the table before clumsily dropping onto the cafeteria-style bench across from them.

“You know there is officer dining? With better food and your own sort?” Octavia drawls.

“I like it here,” Lexa deadpans saucily, but then goes back to looking more or less under the weather. “Besides, the officer spaces are a boy's club.”

“And you're one of the boys.”

“Shut up, Octavia,” Clarke interjects. “Lexa looks too tired to take any of your shit today.”

“Why _are_ you so tired?” Octavia probes.

“There was an officer party,” Lexa says casually.

Clarke’s face strains with the effort of not reacting to that. “Oh? Did you have fun?”

“I suppose a bit,” Lexa mumbles, eyes flickering over Clarke’s face before settling on her breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast.

“Oh, didn't I see you with that Echo girl? She's the talk of the town. I hate to tell you, but Bellamy’s already...” Octavia gestures crudely, and Clarke looks away.

“Gross,” Lexa breathes, looking awake and alive, but with regret. “We talked for awhile.”

Clarke smiles, but it's as scrambled as all the eggs in front of her. Her heart is hammering weirdly, and of course she’s having feelings, that's natural, but there's no room for them. Lexa’s fucking someone else. That’s fine. That's good, even, because that’s what not exclusive means, right? Everything is functioning at a normal, healthy pace… everything is good, Clarke chants. 

Octavia starts talking about how hot Raven is, which is her _only_ favorite topic besides Lincoln’s six pack, but Clarke actually focuses on the noisy monologue to keep from choking on small bits of bacon after observing the sluggish pace at which Lexa eats her breakfast. She's exhausted. 

_Likely from all the sex she's been having_ , Clarke thinks. 

Eventually, they all file away to work, but Lexa separates from them, going off to wherever she goes to do the assistant manager thing. 

Clarke doesn't say goodbye. She is the epitome of a great employee; she does her job and keeps to herself otherwise, disguising her disinterest as exhaustion. She skips the bar for the next few days and claims she's sleeping, so nobody will think she's doing it on purpose.

**Day 027**

It doesn’t really work, though.

“Where have you been?” Lexa asks, sitting beside her at the bar. 

“Sleeping,” Clarke replies, eyes widening a little at being questioned. “I’ve been tired lately.”

Lexa nods. “Has Octavia calmed down?”

“I finally made her promise to start fucking exclusively in Raven’s room,” Clarke answers. “There's no reason when she’s fucking someone with an officer’s room, and Lincoln and her will do it anywhere, I think.”

“True. You're drinking the hard stuff,” Lexa observes, raising an eyebrow.

Clarke stirs the cheap whiskey around with her little finger. It’s mildly sickening, and tastes a bit like how batteries smell. “Yup.” 

Lexa searches her face. “Any particular reason?” she questions.

“Nope,” Clarke deadpans.

“Mm.” 

They sit there in silence.

“Do you want to come back to mine?” Lexa asks after the Titanic comes onto the television and everyone in the bar boos loudly.

“For sex?” Clarke clarifies.

“No. I thought we could braid each other’s hair and have a teaparty.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Bad joke.”

“I apologize,” Lexa drawls then deflates, staring into her empty beer bottle. “Are you… upset with me, Clarke? It feels like you are.”

“About what?”

“About what Octavia said-- Echo and I.”

“What?” Clarke snorts. “No.”

Lexa stares at her before softly asking, “Really?”

“It caught me off guard, but... no.”

“You're the one who wants--”

“I know what I want, Lexa,” Clarke interrupts, giving her a dark, indescribable glance. 

The truth is that Clarke has no idea what she wants. The whole point of traveling the world on this godforsaken ship while she works an insane amount of hours with shit pay is to find out what she does, in fact, truly want out of herself and life. 

“Of course,” Lexa says, pursing her lips. She pauses, hesitant. “I'm sorry if I'm bothering you. I can go somewhere else to drink.”

“Don't bother. I was just leaving,” Clarke replies, hopping off the bar stool.

Lexa nods weakly, staring straight forward, but Clarke pauses right before going to ask, “Are you coming or not, Commander Fuckface?” 

Lexa drains her drink and does.

Monty produces a wolf whistle from the corner and Octavia pulls away from her passionate makeout session with Lincoln briefly to roll her eyes at their exit. 

 

Sex is different this time. 

They both struggle for control. 

Clarke pushes her into the door and nearly breaks the lock, but Lexa manhandles her to the bed, throwing her down and crawling on top of her. To compensate for this, Clarke hooks a thigh around Lexa’s knee and flips them over. She has strong thighs. She was a cheerleader in high school for two years, and before that a gymnast, not that she would admit that here.

Lexa, eyes bubbling, looks mildly pissed when Clarke jams a hand over her throat.

“Do you not like it rough?” Clarke asks.

Lexa makes a choking noise that's supposed to be a laugh and uses brute force to wrestle her off the top, around, and onto her stomach.

“Do you?” she counters in Clarke’s ear, all dripping desire as she twists Clarke’s arms firmly (gently) behind her. “I didn't know you liked playing rough.”

“Maybe I do,” Clarke murmurs. 

“Maybe you should think of a safeword,” Lexa suggests.

“I already have one in mind,” Clarke deadpans, gritting her teeth. She wiggles around, but Lexa has a thigh wedged between her own and hips that strongly bear down. Lexa is too strong from a life on the sea or the weight room or her years in the Navy/ _killing dozens of people_. This game will always end like this-- Lexa hates losing too much and Clarke hates that she secretly craves to lose.

“And what is that?” Lexa asks in a high, patronizing voice.

“Pina colada,” Clarke spits.

Lexa laughs, which breaks the tension an entire half inch. “Your drink tonight? I suppose that works.” She doesn't bother undressing her, just unzips the back of her crumbled uniform dress and rips-- actually, _rips_ \-- a hole in her panties. 

Clarke shrieks to cover the moan that’s about to drop out of her mouth and says, “I can't afford you ripping my good underwear! You _will_ buy me new ones.”

“Fine,” Lexa counters, but Clarke can hear the triumphant smirk that's surely on her face. 

When Lexa finally sinks into her, Clarke emits a long growl that reduces to a whimper. Lexa laughs-- it's infuriating and embarrassing and makes her orgasm _extremely_ quickly.

Lexa is obscenely attractive, and _weird_ , and occasionally way more knowledgeable and/or smug than Clarke can actually withstand, but she also somehow gets what Clarke needs. She’s safe.

**Day 029**

“Lexa.”

Lexa frowns before looking up from a pile of paperwork. “... Clarke?”

“Hey,” Clarke says casually, leaning against the frame of the door. “So, this is your office?”

“Yeah… yes. Why aren't you at work?”

“I have lunch off,” Clarke drops suggestively.

Lexa leans back in her chair, and smiles. 

Clarke steps into the small office/supply office and looks around. “Does this room lock?”

Lexa stands up, roughly brushing past her in the enclosed space, and closes the door, sliding the metallic catch to the left. When she turns around, Clarke appraises her for a minute. Lexa’s in her officer’s uniform, and god, Clarke will never admit it, but it's _hot_. She's never seen her here like this.

“You’re here for me?” Lexa murmurs.

Clarke feels electricity crackling in her palms like a warning, and steps forward, nodding.

“You couldn't wait until a more appropriate time, Clarke?” Lexa drawls, but she's just playing with her and they both know it. She approves.

“No,” Clarke deadpans. The loud sound of a zipper fills the closet and her dress drops to the floor, revealing a white lace underwear set connected to equally white garters.

“Uh-- wow,” Lexa breathes, groping the edge of her desk like she needs the support. Her eyes dart around, roaming all over the bare, creamy skin of Clarke’s curves, her thighs and waist and hips, and instead of softening, her eyes squint, harden to mere pinpricks.

“You like?” Clarke surmises.

Lexa makes a strangled sound and surges toward her. Clarke’s expecting to be thrown up against a wall or something, but when Lexa’s touch comes, it's gentle as a feather. Lexa holds her against her and strokes her sides, and her thighs, sliding her hands across the fluffy puff of lace that rises up from the tight material that hugs Clarke’s hips.

Lexa puts a hand on either hip and pushes the panties down with long fingertips, but only slightly-- they hang on her thighs, exposing Clarke to the cool air. Lexa’s eyes drop to the area, pupils visibly darkening, and then she's roughly maneuvering Clarke backwards to lean against the desk. “You're wet,” she hums. “And lingerie implies forethought, you know.”

“Shut up,” Clarke breathes. “No talking.”

Lexa looks away from her sex to throw her a bemused look. “That really is your fetish.”

Clarke narrows her eyes and shakes her head. “That would be a stupid fetish.”

Lexa bends down to give her a teasing lick. “This is a no judgment zone, Clarke.” 

“Lick me,” Clarke retorts.

“Put your hands on the desk and lie back,” Lexa orders, sinking to the ground.

“Bastard,” Clarke mumbles at the command, but as soon as Lexa presses her lips to the apex of her, she does just that and crumples, loosens, against the sensation.

“You like it,” Lexa assures.

Twenty minutes later, Lexa pulls her underwear up and taps her lightly. Clarke jolts forward, overstimulated, before yelling, “I'm sensitive, Commander Fuckface!”

“Sorry. It's cute you think of me as your commander, though,” Lexa winks, kissing her gently over her underwear before pulling her hips off the table and fixing her garters, which Clarke watches in lazy arousal.

“I know your fetishes,” Clarke replies, smirking when Lexa finishes and she pulls away to reach for her dress. “Why don’t you take off your clothes now?” she directs in an authoritative tone, slipping on her dress and turning so Lexa will zip it back up.

“Later,” Lexa replies, doing up the zipper. “I'll come find you. I have some work to catch up on.” 

“Alright,” Clarke says easily, and Lexa’s just finished zipping up her dress, so she strolls out the office in much the way she came. She wonders if she’s interrupted something important.

It's been angry, bruising sex between them since Clarke heard about Echo. Lexa treats her roughly, sternly, all business, and Clarke tries to conceal how she finds it the sexiest thing alive. She doesn't want to ponder out the specifics of their arrangement beyond the fact that she enjoys it. The gist of it she’s already deduced; there's something looming between them, something that isn't mere attraction, lust, alcohol, or even the fact that they're stranded together. 

It's just something else entirely.

**Day 031**

“Do you think she’ll come?” Clarke asks.

They're at a 90s themed crew party she’s planned-- there are (deflating) balloons drifting in the corner and Smashbox is on the shitty boombox. It would kind of suck if Lexa didn't show up, but Clarke hasn't seen a hide or hair of her since the incident in the casino office; though that's not that unusual. She doesn't know what to think. Maybe she's thinking it over too much.

Octavia throws back a tequila shot and says, “She’ll be here at some point, _relax_.”

“I am relaxed,” Clarke retorts. She does the other tequila shot to prove it, but grimaces.

Octavia laughs at her. “Weakling.”

“I'm not weak,” Clarke protests. “Another!”

Monty walks up to her and groans. Clarke laughs and he puts his head on her shoulder.

“Drunk,” he says.

Clarke pats his arm, standing up to order him a water. She hands it to him a second later.

“You're the best, Clarke,” Monty says.

“You're the mom in our friend group,” Octavia states, smirking at having figured Clarke out that much more. “You always have to make sure everyone's all safe and taken care of.” 

“Sorry I like being nice. Even though that still doesn't make me anyone’s _mother_ ,” Clarke replies in an indignant tone, but smiling at the word friend. “Someone has to look after you dumbasses,” she mutters.

“You kind of are our mother, but that's what I love about you,” Monty says earnestly.

Clarke rolls her eyes and leans to the side to ruffle his hair. “Sit down and drink this water.”

“Clarke?”

Clarke whirls around to find Lexa. She’s just tipsy enough to remember why she's supposed to be distant and not care, so she doesn't stop her smile at first glance. “Hi,” she says, a little shy.

“Hey,” Lexa replies. She pushes Monty away and sits in the stool next to her.

“Hey! You really are a Commander Fuckface,” Monty counters.

“Sorry,” Lexa murmurs, but she's not. _She looks tense_ , Clarke thinks. 

“Rough day?” Clarke asks.

Lexa only nods.

Clarke offers her a tequila. “Want a shot?” 

Lexa nods again, and reaches out to take it, all of her fingers brushing against Clarke's. Lexa sends her a subtle, but heated look, and Clarke wonders where all of that lay hidden in the previous moment. Lexa’s so good at concealing her inner emotions that if Clarke doesn’t pay good enough attention, she misses things. She leans forward, and Lexa stares at her lips hungrily, surging forward to grab Clarke’s neck and pull her closer. Clarke relaxes, deepens the kiss, and then someone-- Octavia, maybe-- is hollering loudly, calling attention to their intimate act. 

Then everyone starts cheering.

“What the fuck,” Clarke says, pulling away.

Lexa glares toward Octavia and Monty, who are leaning against each other and pointing at them. Bellamy comes up and looks at Lexa disapprovingly. Lexa, irritated, sighs and throws Clarke a bemused look.

“Nobody’s seen _that_ happen before. It's hot,” Octavia says.

“Damn, it really is,” Monty mutters.

“You’re doing Lexa, _really_ , Clarke?” Bellamy asks. “I thought you were better than that. We don’t fuck the enemy. It’s forbidden love!”

“That’s a little hypocritical seeing as how your sister’s doing it with Raven, but relax, I fuck only with _this_ enemy. She's harmless.” Clarke rolls her eyes. “It's casual,” she adds, itching her shoulder in the extra awkwardness that comes with clarifying. 

“So, you're free for others?” Bellamy surmises with a grin. Lexa stiffens.

“If I like them,” Clarke retorts, shrugging.

Bellamy pushes Octavia out of her seat and she hits him angrily. He pats her consolingly, patronizingly, but sits next to Clarke. “I think you’re beautiful,” he deadpans.

“You're not bad to look at, but I think from the amount of sex you have, you probably have a few STIs,” Clarke levels with him-- serious.

“I always wear a condom,” Bellamy replies.

Lexa rolls her eyes and orders a beer. “I heard he has chlamydia," she mutters.

“I do not have chlamydia, Lexa,” Bellamy retorts. “That’s blatant slander.”

“I heard that rumor, too,” Monty adds quietly.

“It's not true,” Bellamy insists, flushing as he takes an extra long drink of beer. 

“It's not, but if it was, an antibiotic would cure it. In theory,” Octavia throws in, looking away quickly. “But Lexa’s just making it up because she wants Clarke all to herself.” 

“It sounds incestous when you try to stand up for your brother's sexual health,” Lexa drawls steadily in reply. “Especially when he’s so obviously guilty.”

Clarke cracks up and leans into her. Lexa puts an arm around her shoulder and smiles toothily, staring-- seemingly casually but really very pointedly-- at Bellamy in warning.

“Variety is the spice of life, Clarke,” Bellamy lectures, ignoring Lexa, his eyes bright and optimistic. He's a lot more pleasant to deal with when he's sober, but Clarke isn’t sober and isn’t in the mood to deal. “You came here to experience life, didn't you?” he adds.

“I guess,” Clarke admits. _Not chlamydia, though._

“I could show you things,” he replies.

“Likely only helicopter dick,” Lexa interjects. 

Clarke explodes into giggles.

Octavia pats Bellamy’s head consolingly, but also as patronizingly as he had her earlier, and shoves him off the stool. She's super strong from a childhood of karate as it turns out. Bellamy gets the picture, which never included him, and huffs away to a table full of dancers.

Lexa shakes her head like he's a joke and asks, “Are you in the shape to join me?” 

“Yeah,” Clarke replies. “Cashing out?”

“Yes.” 

The hot little word propels Clarke out of her seat, which Octavia registers with a sad groan, as she follows Lexa to the hallway. In the hallway, the lights flicker and Lexa hides behind a looming door frame only to nearly scare the dress off Clarke’s body.

“Stop, fuckface!” Clarke yells instinctively.

Lexa grins and shushes her, pulling her closer as they pass by a couple--Lincoln and Echo-- making out. Clarke slows and stares, swallowing, but notes no reaction from Lexa. This sort of weird shit is constantly happening in shady little hallway corners-- strange pairings fucking each other. The degrees of separation, or lack thereof, are unsettling, and Clarke wonders how Lexa feels. Once the hallway opens up again, Lexa pulls Clarke with powerful strides to the West.

“You seem eager,” Clarke remarks.

“Maybe,” Lexa replies. They get to her door, and she unlocks it. Once it's shut, Lexa unbuttons her white uniform. Clarke watches with smiling, greedy eyes as she kicks her high heels off.

“I love you in that dress,” Lexa murmurs, then stiffens. “I mean-- it's cute.”

“Thanks,” Clarke counters, ignoring her awkwardness over the choice of words. “I have a question,” she chirps. 

Lexa lifts an eyebrow.

“Why do you hate Bellamy?” Clarke asks, but she thinks of Echo and Lincoln fucking in the hallway. 

Lexa sighs. “He's just stupid,” she says.

“Yeah, but--”

“I don’t really think about him often. He doesn't matter. Fuck him if you want,” Lexa deadpans tensely. “The only thing that matters now is that you’re here to fuck me.” She turns to halt Clarke’s hands, which are inching her dress off. “Keep it on. It's pretty.”

Clarke stops and flicks the lights off. “Alright.”

Lexa’s words are not lost on her. 

Clarke reaches for Lexa, but Lexa pins her hand down to her thigh, reaching forward with the other to softly caress between her legs. Clarke rolls into the touch in the dark.

“You're here for _this_ , right?” Lexa adds, cupping her roughly. Clarke squirms, barely suppressing a light moan when Lexa finally swipes across her clit with a single finger.

“Maybe,” Clarke edges.

“Just maybe, Clarke?” Lexa mocks, hand tightening its hold on her. 

Clarke has the gall to nod.

“I think you might being coy,” Lexa retorts. 

“I think you might not know what you're talking about.”

Lexa snorts rudely, but declines to speak further on the subject. She pushes Clarke to the bed and gets down to the business of punishing her via relentless teasing. Clarke’s to the point of whimpers and panting when Lexa’s fingers sink into her. However, she refuses to thrust until Clarke begs her to.

Clarke resists this until she can't. “Please?”

“You can do better than that,” Lexa replies, leaning down to lick her clit and bury her fingers a tiny bit deeper into Clarke. It feels so good, but it’s an inadequate amount. Friction. She needs friction. 

“Please, Lexa?” Clarke asks. She tries to keep her voice steady, but it lapses into breathless territory, making Lexa smile.

“No-- I'm searching for another phrase.” 

“Commander…?” Clarke probes, guessing. “Commander _Fuckface_ ,” she teases softly in a rebellion that honestly fades completely when she gets to orgasm.

It's not an ideal response, but the truth is that Lexa isn't sure herself what she's even getting at. Clarke shifts and Lexa, eyes adjusted to the dark, is overtaken by her subtle golden glow-- she's so tanned and pristine. She begins an abrupt rocking rhythm, a fast and brutal one that immediately has Clarke gasping, her hips jolting back into Lexa’s palm faster and faster. 

“Fuck,” Clarke whispers. “Oh my--”

“Don't come,” Lexa says.

Clarke rakes her fingernails down Lexa’s back, leaving big angry welts, and hisses.

“I need to come,” she demands.

“But don't,” Lexa replies, rubbing her clit.

Clarke jerks around. “I have to…”

“No. Wait,” Lexa demands sternly.

Clarke nearly screams as she tries to fight off the need to come. She tries, but she doesn’t succeed. Her face clears of all the tenseness, all Earthly pressure, before she finally does come. When she opens her eyes, she glances guiltily at Lexa with a big smile.

Lexa narrows her eyes. “You came, didn't you, Clarke,” she deadpans.

“Sorry…”

“Right,” Lexa sighs, retreating to reach into the bottom drawer of her plastic nightstand.

“What are you doing?” Clarke asks, sluggish curiosity creeping up her spine.

Lexa shuts the drawer and leans over to plug whatever it is in. When she emerges, there’s a microphone-looking object in her hand. A loud mechanical whirl, different but familiar to Clarke, fills the room when she flicks a switch on the vibrator. She recognizes the sound.

“If you can't control yourself then I guess I’ll have to,” Lexa says slowly, staring at Clarke intensely. “I'm going to make you come as many times as you can withstand with this.”

 _So, her fetish is being in control_ , Clarke thinks. She had felt, weirdly enough, that Lexa hadn't been completely truthful the first time she had bothered to ask. Fucking pretty girls and making them come may have been a habit for her, but Clarke has an inkling her desires ran darker than something so routine. But she probably only realizes that because of her own desire.

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Clarke murmurs, laughing nervously at the situation and how _fucking wet_ it makes her. She’s extremely glad Lexa can't actually read her mind, because her train of thought is inappropriate and embarrassing given their current friends with benefit situation. But for those that are interested, it goes like this:

_\--Why is her hair so soft and wonderful, dear fucking god, her forearm vein is bulging again and the way she’s looking at me is going to give me high cholesterol, fuck--_

Lexa shoots her a serious look and flips her on her stomach, trapping the vibrator snugly between her legs. Clarke tenses briefly before relaxing against it. It’s powerful, and soon, the vibrations are moving through her, propelling her, fireworks curling in her arms, up her neck, in her stomach. She curls her body and comes again instantly, strangely aware of Lexa, who is silent and surely watching, hovering somewhere above her. 

She’s given a second of reprieve before Lexa slides three fingers back into her abruptly and starts pounding away at the previous pace.

It's a long, long time later, and way too many orgasms to count, when Lexa releases her.

Clarke waddles out of her room in the middle of the night, but instead of going back to her room, she heads to the internet cafe. She writes her dad a short email, which is 90% just apologizing for not having done so already (she definitely can't tell him what really goes on here), and finally heads back.

Her room is empty and oddly silent.

Clarke strips her clothes off, throwing on a long, soft shirt, and settles into bed. She should be dissolving into the best sleep of her life, but she's annoyingly, glaringly, awake. Her mind drifts to the soreness, the utter spentness, between her legs, which, as all damn roads do, leads to thoughts of Lexa. 

Lexa is sweet; Lexa is sour. She is soft as hard, sweet and stern, young but old.

Clarke often remembers how casually she admitted to killing dozens of men, and she believes her, but it's hard to picture. Lexa's obviously strong, moves so swiftly and precisely sometimes that it's got to be some sort of training, but she's not threatening. 

At least with Clarke.

Because even when Lexa has three fingers inside of her and is manipulating her body around like a ragdoll and saying scary, filthy, perverted things, Clarke has never once felt afraid. She trusts that Lexa wouldn’t hurt her. That's dangerous, though, because Clarke had promised herself a long time ago that she would never think that about someone again. Anyone could hurt her. And she knows that because she had once been burned so thoroughly that she had learned her lesson.

The truth is that she can only trust herself.

 _So, when did I start trusting her?_ Clarke, staring at the top of her bunk, asks herself. She glares at the white for awhile, waiting for an answer she can accept but never gets.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're here because you just saw this and were like, "Why the fuck did this bitch post this massive thing and not finish the final chapter of IIMRIMVIMBAISEHTIUTHTP?" (Wow-- that's a ridiculous acronym.) Well, I'M SORRY. I'm not letting myself work on anything else until it's done, which it so nearly is. I've had some wicked block on that project, but it will be up soon. 
> 
> Anyhow, hope you liked this. I will try to update this four piece thing like twice a month, but I do have school, so please bear with me.


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